


Underground

by ShortlockHolmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Clothed Sex, Established Relationship, Frotting, London Underground, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Quiet Sex, Vibrator - sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:41:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShortlockHolmes/pseuds/ShortlockHolmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John take the Tube.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underground

**Author's Note:**

> My first Sherlock fic which, irony upon irony, turns up to be a PWP instead of the more grand ideas I've been trying to work out. Just something ridiculous that popped into my head when I was trying to sleep, and needed to get out of my system.
> 
> Um... Happy Christmas...?

Summer. It’s a warm evening, even for London. Warm enough to go without coats and jackets. John’s in his cardigan and Sherlock’s in his usual suit jacket. They say heat does strange things. Rather, hot weather makes you behave badly—commit sins. Tell that to John at any other time and he would’ve laughed, called it ridiculous and something out of a Victorian erotic novel. Tell that to John when he’s pressed between sweaty bodies, in a metal tube, on the Jubilee Line, during rush hour, on a Friday evening? Maybe not so ridiculous anymore. Specially not when the sweaty body pressed against his front belongs to a certain consulting detective who might just have the most gorgeous arse in all of London. Possibly England. Definitely the finest John has the pleasure of “getting to know”, across three continents. And that’s saying something.

This shouldn’t have happened. More accurately, this shouldn’t happen at all. They’d been called to a crime scene—rather, Lestrade called _John_ because Sherlock’s still cross with the DI over restricted access during the last case and, thus, fancied diverting all his calls to voicemail—something about a severed torso found in Waterloo. It shouldn’t be _that_ interesting—by Sherlock’s standards, at least—but there’s the lack of a particular factor that had him rushing down the stairs and onto the pavement: blood. There‘s _no blood_.

So, they’re off to look for a sanitary butcher from hell. Under normal circumstances, they’d be ensconced in a cab whilst Sherlock spewed word vomit about this and that, and John made the appropriate noises here and there. But it’s rush hour on a Friday evening. By the time they arrived, Sherlock might not even _have_ a torso to examine. It’s just, after all, a bloodless torso placed in the middle of an abandoned construction area. Not much to process. They need to get to the crime scene. Fast. Hence, the Underground. Sherlock didn’t have an Oyster card and wasn’t pleased that he needed to queue up for a ticket. He was so keyed up by the excitement and the stress and the _people_ , he looked about ready to create his own crime scene then and there. A quick brush of John’s lips against his was enough to calm him down. Once they boarded, it’d all be smooth sailing from there. Or so John thought.

It was fine, at first. A little cramped and warm, but manageable. Nothing they couldn’t handle. He and Sherlock stood side by side, shoulders brushing. It was comfortable, even, being this close to each other in public, in a perfectly acceptable manner. John only hoped some of the passengers would alight when they hit Bond Street, so there’d be a bit more air to go round. Of course, this was when the Universe decided to conspire against him. In fact, it seemed that nobody was getting out, only people getting in. John had to fight against the tidal wave of people to keep himself from getting separated. If possible, things got even worse in Green Park. Which leads to the current predicament of John’s crotch rubbing against Sherlock’s behind, with every shift of the carriage. Either Sherlock doesn’t notice or doesn’t say anything. And both scenarios are equally unlikely.

“John…”

“Yeah?”

“That’s… not your gun, is it?”

“… No.”

“All right.”

He can’t see Sherlock’s face but he can tell something changed in those few seconds after that damning answer. Thank God the people round them have taken to listening on their earbuds, looking at graffiti sprayed on a sign, or simply not daring to make eye contact. Anything to avoid acknowledging their likeness to tinned sardines. John sighs and closes his eyes, hoping to do the same. Which isn’t a very good idea. Without his vision, his other senses have seemed to kick into overdrive. The only thing he can focus on is Sherlock’s smell. His musk carefully buried under layers of his expensive woody cologne and John’s deodorant which he’d taken to wearing. That and the delicious friction of his dick _right there_. Under _very_ different circumstances, John would be rolling his hips, brushing against the back of Sherlock’s tight balls with every thrust in between the clench of his pale thighs.

His fantasy is interrupted by a deep rumble he’d never fail to hear even amongst the chatter of a thousand people. “John.”

It only takes seconds for his prick to migrate from a dormant five o’clock to a full-blown four o’clock, even in tight boxer briefs. “Yeah?”

“Stop it. Your erection is distracting.”

John splutters, his blood—he isn’t sure whether to be grateful or not—rushing to his face. He whips his head round, hoping nobody heard, but everyone seems just as indifferent as ever. Thank God. Being English has its benefits. He’s relieved but still pissed. Pissed and aroused as he winds himself up for an argument on public etiquette. “Sherlock, what the hell—“

_This station is Westminster. Change here for the Circle and District Lines. This line terminates at Stratford._

The train changes gears and has only begun to slow down, but the passengers are already shifting, bearing down on him from all sides. Oh, no.

_This station is Westminster. Change here for the Circle and District Lines. This line terminates at Stratford._

He manages to grab onto Sherlock by the belt loops and tries to plant his feet firmly in the ground. It’s useless against the sea of people. It doesn’t do much good at all since even _Sherlock_ seemed to be overwhelmed as well. It’s like an elaborate dance, holding onto him, twisting this way and that to avoid the crowd, as well as bony elbows and knees to avoid hitting any _delicate_ areas. By the time the doors close and the train starts moving again, the pair are facing each other by the door, the head of Sherlock’s prick pressed uncomfortably against John’s belt buckle. He squirms and both men gasp as their crotches line up and grind together. Fuck.

“Sherlock…”

“Yes?”

“Are you wearing any pants?”

“… No.”

“OK.”

The air changes again and something is decided. Sherlock slides his hand between their bodies and fumbles for John’s erection, now at three o’clock. Sherlock’s proud of him, his John. Even through the moleskin trousers, he gets a good grip on the base and rolls it in his palm, causing John’s eyes to follow suit as his head tilts sideways to rest against the door’s window. Sherlock keeps his head tilted down, mesmerised as he watches the fabric shift at John’s sheer girth straining against its confines.

They’re good at this, quiet sex. They’ve had plenty of practice in the cupboards at Barts; Anderson’s cubicle at Scotland Yard—he’d been a bigger wanker than usual that day; and even in 221B’s hallway, with Mrs Hudson only a door away. It’s thick and hot in their mouths, the danger of being caught. Another way to live right on the edge, whether it’s concerning life or a damn good orgasm. That’s why when Sherlock rubs his thumb right over John’s slit, right where he _wants_ it, John doesn’t cry out. Instead, he makes a tiny noise caught carefully in his throat while the rest pushes against the walls of his chest. He lets it go and breathes deeply. Slowly and deliberately, in time with Sherlock’s own breaths.

Sherlock splays his fingers and brushes the flat of his entire hand down over the bump one last time, before shifting his thigh between John’s and slotting their hips together. It doesn’t take long to form a rhythm, using the sway of the carriage and passengers to rock back and forth, making tiny sounds for each other that only they can hear. A slow burn so hot in their trousers; it’s a wonder they hadn’t caught fire. Close. Sherlock’s so close. So’s John, by how he’s getting red in the face. By the way the muscles in his abdomen clench as he all but stops breathing. As the world condenses itself into one sharp point. Just one more… One mo—

_This station is Waterloo. Change here for the Bakerloo, Northern and City Lines, and National Rail Services. This line terminates at Stratford._

Bugger.

_This station is Waterloo. Change here for the Bakerloo, Northern and City Lines, and National Rail Services. This line terminates at Stratford._

The Universe is against them again as the crowd swells and shoves them out the doors, the pair finally getting separated in the deluge. John’s a little disoriented at how fresh and cool the air is now that they’re out of the overheated tin. Well, that’s probably caused by the sweat cooling on his back. And the pre-come in his pants. God. It takes him a few seconds to find Sherlock again or, rather, bump into him.

“All right?” John asks.

Sherlock’s flushed down to his chest, his cheekbones and collarbones shining proudly from the rest of his skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Aside from the obvious bulge in his trousers, he looks pretty well put together for someone who’d just got cockblocked.

“I’m fine,” he replies briskly. “Let’s get out of here.” He impatiently tugs on John’s arm in a way that can only mean one thing. John couldn’t agree more.

 

They couldn’t get through the ticket gates faster. Soon, they’re in the loo where they meet a man on his way out. They commandeer the last cubicle and shut the door where John presses the length of his body to Sherlock’s, hands tangling in his hair as he gives him a heated kiss. Oh, that’s so much better. It easily turns to two. Then three. The intensity is enough to get them both raging hard again, as if the interruption hadn’t happened. There’s barely any teeth, as in their usual style, but John makes up for it with his tongue. He traces the ridge of sternocleidomastoid down Sherlock’s throat and laps at the sweat that pooled in the hollow formed by his collarbones. God, he wanted this. So did Sherlock, judging by the way his hands clung to him desperately. His head tipped back to give John more access. As tempting as it is to use his teeth, there have priorities at the moment and encouraging the Yard’s betting pool isn’t high on the list. Save that for later when they get home. Sherlock notices, of course. He understands what John’s trying to do but thrusts against him anyway, just to be a peeve. Their muffled moans are loud in the room. Right. The time for teasing is over.

Sherlock backs John into the cubicle wall and grabs one hand. John thinks he’s being pinned but he’s wrong. Sherlock laces their fingers together and simply _holds_ it to the wall, and does the same with the other hand. The action from below, however, remains merciless. Their clothed erections grinding together, the rasp of fabric, just on the right side of painful, too good to give up. A combination of love and lust. They pant and whimper and moan in each other’s ears. Their mouths wrestle for dominance, kissing and licking and sucking wherever they can reach. They’re too far gone now to bother with clothes. Past the point of caring whether or not someone walks in. Hell, it’s _better_ that way. Two men at the urinals, one at the tap now. The knowledge sends a fresh pulse of arousal straight to their cocks. They quietly dare each other.

_Faster. Please._

_God, yes!_

_Mmm. John… Yes, that’s…_

_Fuck._

_Oh…!_

_Harder. Right there. Oh, Sher—_

A ring from Sherlock’s jacket pocket startles them out of their rhythm. Once. Then twice, before going to voicemail. Lestrade. Probably wondering what’s taking them. Sherlock doesn’t care. Bloodless torso be damned if he isn’t going to come. He makes that clear when he presses into John again and growls low in his throat.

_Shut up, Lestrade!_

He rubs directly on John’s fraenulum, causing him to moan round a mouthful of shirt button. The loo door shuts and they’re alone again. If Lestrade’s anything, he’s persistent because he calls _John_ this time.

“Fuck!”

He’d be a jittering mess on the floor if Sherlock hadn’t been supporting him. Because John’s wearing a cardigan with no pockets. Which means his mobile’s in his jeans. Vibrating. Right next to his dick. For a whole thirty seconds. And weren’t those rather lovely sensations?

_On second thought, call again._

Lestrade does.

“Oh, fuck… Sher—!!”

The rest of the cry is lost in Sherlock’s shoulder as he feels John’s cock stiffen, twitch in strong pulses as he comes and slumps against him. The feel’s almost just as emphatic as the sight of it releasing thick pearly strings on Sherlock’s hand or stomach or face. Christ. He feels his own orgasm approaching, begging to be released like a tightly coiled spring. Close. He’s so clo—

“Stop.”

He does. It takes all of Sherlock’s will to keep from yelling in frustration, but he does. He may have whimpered, though. “John…!” There’s a note of rare desperation in Sherlock’s voice. He needs this. He fucking _needs_ this if he wants to keep his balls undamaged. “Please…”

“No.” John’s voice brooks no argument. “You can’t come, not like that.”

Sherlock is about to ask why the bloody hell not when John gestures to his expensive trousers. Oh, right. He’s not wearing pants today, and he was about to put the evidence of their activities on display. “What will I do without you?”

John smiles back at the indirect compliment and unbuttons his jacket. There’s an impressive patch of pre-come at the waistband. God, he must be so wet. “Here, let me.”

He backs Sherlock to the opposite wall and gets on his knees to free his erection. It twitches and pumps more pre-come to say hello. John feels his mouth water at the sight and greets back by licking his lips. He leans forward and catches the clear fluid with his tongue. There’s a sharp inhale above him, and fingers gnarl in his hair, tugging slightly. No time to tease. Sherlock needs to come. Now.

John takes him as far as he could, using one hand to steady Sherlock’s prick while the other rolls his balls gently. He sucks hard and swirls his tongue round the shaft, massaging the head as Sherlock thrusts shallowly into his mouth. His hand moves back further to press on Sherlock’s magic button: his perineum. The sensation sends sparks of pleasure up his spine and makes his legs useless. John lets him down gently, spreads his thighs and keeps sucking at the steep angle, picking up the pace. Sherlock’s head falls back and he grips the back of John’s head, urgently. He gets the message. He introduces the barest of teeth and it’s too much. Sherlock goes over the edge, eyes screwed shut and jaw clenched to stifle his cry. John feels the head of his cock hit his hard palate with every twitch, lets Sherlock fill his mouth and soften, before swallowing. He slips him out, licks him clean, and tucks him back into his trousers. The pre-come stain is safely hidden when he buttons the jacket.

“You, sir, are an absolute nutter,” John says eventually, pressing a careful kiss to Sherlock’s temple. “And I love you for it.”

“You… didn’t seem to mind at the time,” Sherlock points out, still catching his breath. He smiles tiredly, the slightly goofy one he gives when his defences are down. It makes John want to kiss him again, so he does. Sherlock kisses back, a lazy brush of lips.

“I came in my pants, fully clothed, to a vibrating phone. Oh, and did I mention I frotted on the Tube with my boyfriend before that?” He giggled. “I take it back. _That_ was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

Another giggle bubbles from his chest and Sherlock joins him. In no time at all, they’re silent again and back to kissing. Sherlock licks away as much come as he could out of John’s mouth, but ends up getting some on himself. It’s counter-productive, but they do that for a while and it’s brilliant. Even when there’s someone taking a leak beside them. They wait for the door to shut again before getting to their feet and cleaning up at the sinks. Christ, they’re covered in sweat, saliva, and semen. John winced at the come drying in his pants, but he didn’t really mind. Fair trade for a truly epic shag. He wiped the rest off and made a mental note to take a shower when they get back. A _long_ shower. Preferably with an equally naked Sherlock involved. For now, it’s business as usual.

 

“What took you?” Lestrade asks. “Thought you said you’d be here in fifteen.”

He stands next to an equally sweaty but more relaxed John, arms folded as he watches Sherlock duck under the tape. They watch him traipse about for a while before he goes completely still, no doubt getting lost in his head as he examines the torso. This is the boring bit, so they return to conversation.

“Something came up,” John eventually says with an internal snigger. Rather, _two_ things went up during the interim. He clears his throat and smiles innocently.

Lestrade sees the look on his face but doesn’t try to think too hard about it. “Right. To be honest, I’m surprised he’s survived on cabs all this time. About bloody time someone’s introduced him to the Underground. It’d be nice having him round to have a look before the rest of the team arrives. Less insults, you know.”

“Oh, God no.” His expression of mock-horror sends them both chuckling. “Have you seen the queue for the ticket? Terrible business, that. You should’ve seen him—he was about to scream bloody murder.”

The DI chuckles with him again in morbid understanding. “If that’s all, you should just get him an Oyster card.”

John gives an enigmatic smile and looks across to find Sherlock giving him a sidelong grin. He knows. “You know what, Greg? I think I will.”


End file.
